A Morbid Habit

by Annie Hauxwell

  ‘Your email’s been taken care of,’ he said.

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’ said Magnus. He stood up, knocking the table in the process. Tea slopped in all directions.

  ‘An out-of-office message has been set up,’ said Green, leaning over to mop up the tea with his hanky. ‘Makes it easier all round.’

  Magnus glanced at the door, but knew it was ludicrous to think he could take this goon on. He wouldn’t get far. He wasn’t being protected – he was being contained.

  ‘You’re here to prevent me following up this story,’ said Magnus.

  Green didn’t respond.

  Magnus was aware of a strange smell clinging to him – sort of smoky, but not tobacco.

  ‘What was in the van?’ said Magnus.

  ‘Sorry, sir, I’m not with you,’ said Green. He blew on his hot tea.

  ‘Guns?’ said Magnus. ‘Drugs? Girls?’

  Green sipped, looking at Magnus over the rim of his cup.

  ‘How long will this so-called protection last?’ said Magnus.

  ‘Until it all blows over,’ said Green.

  Magnus caught more than a whiff of a cock-up. It was unusual for the secret-squirrel blokes to reveal themselves, and they’d done it three times: first by picking him up and letting him go without charging him, to keep the whole thing out of court; then by issuing a D-notice; and finally by sending Peter Green around to keep an eye on him.

  All in the space of twenty-four hours and over Christmas, what’s more. Berlin had latched on to something big. The ship was sinking and these chaps were racing to plug the leaks. Now this.

  Magnus decided it was time for bed.

  Fagan stretched out on Magnus’s sofa and tried to ignore the relentless tick tick tick of the grandfather clock in the corner.

  The old boozer was tucked up in bed. He hadn’t questioned Fagan’s ID, which bore his nom de guerre, and he doubted Magnus was the type to try legging it down the drainpipe. He’d gone all wan and retired early.

  Fagan was feeling a bit edgy himself. He got up and examined the hickory dickory dock, but couldn’t see any way of shutting it up without smashing it. It bore a small brass plaque that recorded the gratitude of the congregation of St Albans for the service of their dean on the occasion of his retirement.

  It struck one, but no mouse appeared. So much for poetry.

  The shadows in the room flickered in the headlights of a passing car. His own vehicle was parked just down the road. It wouldn’t take a minute to pop out for a quick toke or two.

  A floorboard creaked overhead. He glanced up at the ceiling. There was the sound of the loo flushing.

  Fagan locked the front door behind him. He had Magnus’s keys and he could see the house from where he was parked. The residents of the gentrified premises up and down the street were asleep. They slept soundly, Fagan reflected, because they preferred to ignore the state of the world and what was happening on their own doorsteps.

  He got into the Audi, closed the door quietly and turned on the wipers to scrape the icy windscreen. He needed to keep a clear view of the house.

  A few moments later the sticky resin was glowing in the bowl of his pipe. Fagan sucked in its gentle vapour and relaxed.

  The wipers slid back and forth in a hypnotic rhythm.

  The garden path glistened, its soft crunch beneath Fagan’s boots the only sound in the still night. He strolled back to the house, fishing the keys out of his pocket. As he inserted the key in the lock, the door swung open. The hallway beyond it was empty.

  Fagan was stunned. He’d only been gone five minutes and had kept his eye on the place the whole time.

  He glanced at his watch: ten past two. His heart skipped a beat. He’d lost an hour. Jesus Christ. The old bugger must have had a spare set of keys.

  He had really fucked up this time.

  The coward

  37

  In her fitful, vodka-induced sleep Berlin was again aware of the repetitive pounding of Yorkie, and the sounds of Charlie scurrying back and forth, hushing him.

  A man stood over her, frowning. His face was obscure, but familiar. He closed his eyes and she saw that he had a word tattooed on each eyelid. She tried to move closer to read them, but she was paralysed. Panic choked her.

  The man bent down. The words were formed by worm-like blue veins. The letters wriggled beneath the translucent skin, but the Cyrillic script meant nothing to her.

  Berlin woke with a start. Her hands and face were clammy, her breathing ragged. She had failed to decipher the message, but she understood these signs only too well. They heralded the beginning of a short, slithery descent into hell.

  Her teeth chattered, despite the weight of the drapes piled around her.

  The dregs of the night would be spent in a tangle of intrusive thoughts she couldn’t outrun. But there was no way she was walking the streets of Moscow in this state.

  She slid deeper into her nest.

  The next thing she knew Charlie was offering her tea. She must have finally dozed off.

  The first time in years that she had ventured away from home, and everything had turned to shit. She should have stuck to guarding other people’s property during the wee small hours and minding her own business.

  Despite her best efforts to engage in a programmed withdrawal, now she had to endure the exact opposite: classic cold turkey.

  Her only support was an unpredictable former spy who was also a lying interloper engaged in God only knew what scam. And Berlin’s assignment, the most straightforward job any investigator could undertake, was dead in the water.

  Today she was supposed to return home, an efficient and professional operative who could look forward to a fruitful ongoing relationship with Burghley, and her old mate Del.

  She could still be seduced by fairy stories.

  Charlie bent over her and placed a cool hand on her fevered brow. ‘You’re a drug addict,’ she said. She handed Berlin the mug of tea. ‘What are you going to do?’

  Berlin gratefully wrapped her hands around the mug. A tangy aroma wafted from the steaming black brew. She detected sympathy in Charlie’s tone. There seemed little point in protesting that she had flu.

  ‘If you could bring yourself to be more open with me,’ said Berlin, ‘perhaps we could do each other some good.’

  It was obvious that Charlie’s fear of the people she was working with trumped anything Berlin could use as a threat.

  Charlie might be afraid of the authorities, but so was Berlin: the guardians of law and order were capricious and had their own agendas. Utkin, from whom she had not yet heard another word, was a case in point.

  Charlie’s recent observation about Berlin’s status tended to indicate she wasn’t in thrall to Utkin. But you couldn’t be too careful in these circumstances. Every scrap of information could be useful in the right context.

  More than anything else it was clear to Berlin that she and Charlie both had weaknesses that were now being exploited.

  It made them strange bedfellows.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Charlie again.

  ‘What time does the embassy open?’ she asked.

  ‘Ten,’ said Charlie. ‘But you need to be there well before that to get in line.’

  It would be a very British retreat.

  One that began with a queue.

  38

  A fringe of icy droplets hanging from the eaves trembled as a fist hammered the front door. Marjorie Carmichael nudged her husband with her foot. ‘One of the boys must have forgotten his key,’ she murmured.

  Carmichael swore. It was four in the bloody morning. The boys were drunken layabouts in their twenties – postgraduate students, and still costing him a fortune. He cursed higher education.

  Carmichael had barely unlocked the door when Magnus pushed his way in and kicked it shut behind him. ‘Jesus Christ, Magnus,’ said Carmichael. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  Magnus grabbed a handful of Carmichael’s pyjamas
and dragged him close. ‘You tell me, you bloody hypocrite!’ he spluttered. ‘You’re in with all these people. Get the nod, did you?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ said Carmichael. ‘What people?’

  ‘Spooks. I’ve been practically held at gunpoint under the guise of ‘protection’. What happened to the fucking free press? Eh? Tell me that. Call yourself a bloody editor.’

  Carmichael prised Magnus’s fingers off his pyjama jacket and turned away, unable to look him in the face. ‘Not any more,’ he muttered.

  ‘What?’ said Magnus.

  ‘Over Christmas someone made our proprietor an offer for The Sentinel he couldn’t refuse,’ said Carmichael.

  ‘They’ve flogged the paper?’ said Magnus.

  ‘Lock, stock and barrel,’ said Carmichael. ‘In fact, I’m told they’ve even changed the locks. Not to mention the editor.’

  He led the way into the sitting room and poured two large Scotches. He handed one to Magnus. ‘It’s made me think, Magnus, I can tell you,’ said Carmichael. He sipped his Scotch. ‘On the back of this business with you, that is.’

  Magnus drained his Scotch. They were all being done over, one way or another.

  ‘Sleep on the sofa if you like,’ said Carmichael. ‘I hope we don’t have the bloody police banging on the door, looking for you.’

  ‘How would they know I was here?’ said Magnus.

  ‘Anyway, we’ll talk in the morning,’ said Carmichael. ‘Feel free to use the facilities. There’s a loo just off the hall. Marjorie likes to call it the powder room.’ He put down his glass and shuffled to the door. Suddenly he was an old man.

  ‘I’m sorry, Carmichael,’ said Magnus. ‘By the way, who’s the new owner?’

  ‘Someone called Kalandarishvili,’ came the reply. ‘One of these oligarch chaps.’

  Magnus poured himself another Scotch. He knocked it back, then poured another. He dialled directory enquiries on Carmichael’s landline. That bloody bastard Peter had taken his mobile. Magnus could barely recall his own number, let alone any of his contacts’.

  The operator finally answered and asked for a name and address.

  ‘Berlin,’ said Magnus. ‘Er . . . east London somewhere?’

  Peggy was awake with the phone in her hand before the second ring. ‘Hello,’ she said, clearing her throat. It had to be an emergency, someone calling at this hour. She suppressed a frisson of anxiety.

  ‘Hello,’ said her caller. ‘Sorry to disturb you at this hour. My name is Magnus Nkonde. You wouldn’t happen to be a relative of Catherine Berlin’s, by any chance?’

  It was the call Peggy had been dreading for more than thirty years.

  ‘I would,’ said Peggy. ‘I’m her mother.’ The cold air nipped at her ankles. ‘Is she . . . is she all right?’ She held her breath.

  ‘Yes, well, that’s what I’m trying to find out,’ said Magnus. ‘I need to get in touch with her. Would you have her mobile number?’

  Peggy closed her eyes and exhaled.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t give out her number to just anybody. I’m sure you understand.’

  A barely muffled expletive indicated Mr Nkonde’s understanding was limited.

  ‘It’s very important,’ he said.

  Peggy hesitated. ‘I’ll pass the message on and ask her to ring you,’ she said. ‘Just let me find a pen.’ She opened the drawer in the bedside table and took out a pen and pad. ‘Now, how do you spell your surname?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Magnus. ‘Please, this is serious. Do you know where she is?’

  ‘I believe she’s in Moscow,’ said Peggy.

  The sudden silence disturbed her.

  When Mr Nkonde spoke, his tone had changed.

  ‘When did you last hear from her?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘It was the day before Christmas Eve,’ said Peggy. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Please tell her to call me as soon as she can.’

  Peggy felt her chest tighten.

  ‘Give her this message,’ he said. ‘It’s very important. It’s about a van. Are you writing this down?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Peggy.

  ‘Stop,’ said Magnus. ‘Don’t write this down and don’t tell anyone except Catherine. Do you understand?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Peggy. ‘What’s this all about?’

  ‘Listen carefully,’ said Magnus. ‘It could be a matter of life and death.’

  After Mr Nkonde hung up she sat on the edge of the bed in the dark, her head bowed. The chill crept up her calves.

  The second Magnus put down the phone he realised his mistake: Berlin would ring his mobile, which was still in the possession of Peter Green. He cursed, and pressed redial, but was greeted by voicemail. No doubt Mrs Berlin was already on the phone to her elusive daughter.

  Invoking life and death in that sepulchral tone Magnus’s father employed in the pulpit usually galvanised people into action.

  39

  The clerk at the British embassy exuded a passive indifference that had clearly been perfected over a number of years. He scanned yet again the form that Berlin had diligently completed.

  ‘You haven’t provided a Police Report Number,’ he said. ‘You did report the loss of your passport to the local police?’

  ‘Yes. No,’ said Berlin. ‘Not formally. I approached someone I took to be a policeman when I first noticed it had gone.’

  The clerk frowned. ‘In Red Square?’ he asked.

  Berlin nodded.

  ‘Just a moment,’ said the clerk. He left the counter and disappeared through a door.

  The seated rows of supplicants sweated, sighed and muttered. The air was thick with tension and impatience. Security was tight and the guards twitchy. Any sudden movement attracted their attention.

  The clerk reappeared. ‘I’m afraid there’s a problem,’ he said. Before Berlin could call on her rapidly diminishing reserves of patience, her mobile rang.

  She glanced at the display. Mum. Shit. She had forgotten to call and wish her a merry Christmas. Now she was going to hear all about it. She declined the call.

  Stretching full length across the counter, she grabbed the clerk.

  The sudden silence was broken only by the clanking of the security guards’ tactical utility belts as they moved in behind her. Berlin released the clerk and turned to confront them.

  ‘Take me to your leader.’

  The forearm lock was expertly executed.

  A sombre middle-aged woman entered the windowless room where Berlin had sat for nearly two hours. A guard stood in one corner. A small black plastic bubble set into the ceiling indicated that he wasn’t the only person watching her.

  The woman, who was clutching a manila file in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, gave Berlin a shrewd look. She didn’t introduce herself as she sat down on the other side of the table.

  ‘Now that you’ve attracted our attention,’ she said, ‘perhaps you’d care to explain.’

  ‘I simply lost my passport and want it replaced,’ said Berlin. ‘It’s very important that I leave Moscow as soon as possible. I have a flight booked later today.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re not going to be on it.’

  ‘And you are?’ said Berlin.

  ‘Mrs Muir,’ replied the woman.

  Berlin glanced at Mrs Muir’s left hand. No ring. Her features were sharp, matching her tone, which conveyed the disdain of a meticulous bureaucrat for someone foolish enough to lose a passport.

  Mrs Muir undid the buttons of her black suit jacket. The suit had clearly done her good service. It was smart, but well worn. She looked tired, a little haggard. She opened the file and peered at the contents.

  ‘Where are you staying, Ms Berlin?’ she asked. ‘You haven’t given us an address.’

  ‘With a friend,’ said Berlin. ‘She’s very private.’

  Mrs Muir glanced up at her, then resumed her perusal of the file.

  ‘It seems you are th
e subject of an investigation,’ she said. ‘We understand the Russian authorities will detain you here until the conclusion of those enquiries.’

  Berlin stared at her. ‘I haven’t been charged with anything,’ she said.

  ‘It doesn’t make any difference,’ said Mrs Muir. ‘We can’t issue an Emergency Travel Document in these circumstances. They wouldn’t let you leave, anyway.’

  She took a thin sheaf of roughly stapled, photocopied documents from the file and pushed them across the table to Berlin.

  ‘What’s this?’ said Berlin.

  ‘A Prisoner Pack. An explanation of the Russian legal system and what services Her Majesty’s government can offer if you are arrested.’

  Berlin stared at her and Mrs Muir added, ‘Just in case.’

  Berlin gripped the edge of the table.

  The guard stepped forwards.

  Mrs Muir raised a hand. ‘There is absolutely nothing we can do in the current climate,’ she said.

  ‘What does that mean?’ said Berlin. ‘The current climate.’

  ‘It’s a question of balance,’ said Mrs Muir. ‘Whitehall is currently engaged in negotiations with the Kremlin. These matters are very sensitive.’

  ‘Are you telling me I’m a pawn in some diplomatic stand-off?’ said Berlin.

  ‘Each situation is assessed on its own merits,’ said Mrs Muir.

  ‘So that’s a yes,’ said Berlin. ‘The police officer involved certainly didn’t appear to be preoccupied with diplomacy.’

  ‘But that’s exactly what they are preoccupied with,’ said Mrs Muir. She glanced back at the file. ‘We’re talking about an intelligence agency. Not the police. They seem to think you’re a spy.’

  The security guard steered Berlin through basement corridors to the employees’ entrance. She was being put out with the rubbish.

  Mrs Muir had made it clear that there was nothing they could – or would – do for her until the SVR, the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, had completed its ‘assessment’.

  If Berlin’s behaviour gave the Russians a reason to lock her up, they could. The implication was that they didn’t need much of a reason and that she should count herself lucky to have avoided that fate up to this point.